


Blood In The Water

by novalian (ectograsp)



Category: Jeresa - Fandom, Queen of the South (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Speculative, Teresa sees visions of her past self who will not let her live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 18:36:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectograsp/pseuds/novalian
Summary: There are three things Teresa can no longer ignore.El Santo is dangerous. Her past self, making snide digs about keeping her humanity in a business that eats good people alive.And James.





	Blood In The Water

She chose white as her signature colour, but she’s starting to hate the sight of it against her skin. It’s so pretty, but it feels more like a shroud than a shield. The whole notion of Teresa Mendoza as the white knight of the cartel is a joke by now anyway; if she wanted to show her true self, she’d dress in blood red and have done with it. Or maybe just in blood.

But she has a habit of going down roads she can’t easily turn back from, and there are too many eyes on her. If she were to change her style now, every player with ambition would sense the shift in the air and start circling.

Teresa’s trying on a decadent fur coat the colour of glaciers when it happens; standing in a boutique the size of the house she grew up in, surrounded by clothes she could buy with a couple of shipments.  She looks at herself in the mirror, and can’t lie; it’s lovely.

‘It looks beautiful,’ a soft voice agrees, and Teresa’s head snaps up in alarm; she catches a glimpse of something dark in the mirror and whirls around, prepared to shout – but once again, she’s greeted by a version of herself that she isn’t.

Seeing her future self, who always seemed so controlled and confident and _safe_ , had always made _her_ feel safer. The Girl leaning against the dressing room door is bare-faced and dishevelled, her hair uncombed, wearing a pair of holey jeans and a faded flannel shirt. Her eyes are bright, and Teresa – the real Teresa – feels nauseous.

‘I never thought I’d be able to afford something like that in my life,’ the Girl says. ‘Is this really what you sold your soul for?’

 _What do you know_ , Teresa thinks, scowling, but it’s as though the apparition can hear her, and she answers.

‘Some important things that you forgot.’

=

The second time she sees the Girl, she is in the backseat of a car being driven through the streets of Chicago. It’s getting colder, and everyone outside is bundled up in coats and scarves, heads bowed against the chill on the wind. The temperature in the car is perfect; Teresa’s dress is sleeveless.

Pote sits next to her, and between them, a box with the head of their latest challenger in it.

Pote cut it off for her.

A part of her wants to apologize; it’s the kind of thing she would once have thought she’d never ask him to do. But she doesn’t have the luxury of being sorry anymore; not out loud, anyway.

She glances at him sideways, and he immediately catches her gaze, like he was waiting for her to look at him. The expression on his face isn’t angry, or really even troubled. Just tired. But he makes an effort to smile at her, and the part of Teresa that still feels things is warm with the thought that Pote will forgive her anything, as long as she doesn’t stop looking back at him.

Not everyone has such infinite faith.

‘You’re lucky to have him,’ says the Girl, turning around from her spot in the front seat, and Teresa closes her eyes, trying to will her away.

_I know I’m lucky to have him. What’s the point of you if you tell me things I already know?_

‘When you start _feeling_ lucky for the people you have in your life instead of the things you have, I’ll stop reminding you.’

 _I don’t have any other people in my life._ Not anymore. Not anyone who wouldn’t vanish if the money and power disappeared.

The Girl’s expression is devoid of all pity. ‘Whose fault is that?’

=

They go to Bolivia.

Things do not go well.

El Santo likes to have people firmly in his thrall, and he is not a monster who deals well with pets who grow to his size. Teresa has felt the tension for a while; she’s been seeing little masked angels out of the corner of her eye, gone when she turns to look closer but often enough that she’s almost sure they’re real. She knows the eye insignia burned into a tree on her street was real, and expected something different when she went to reaffirm her alliance with El Santo.

She didn’t expect him to double his price.

Gone are the days when they cemented their deals in grimy dungeons; they are sitting on a balcony sipping champagne when he tells her.

‘Perhaps I didn’t hear you right,’ she says flatly.

‘Just because my words are not to your liking does not mean you do not hear them,’ he responds, that slow voice oozing with calm.

‘You have never been driven by profit, El Santo. That’s what makes you different from the other suppliers I’ve worked with. Better. You care about the quality of your product above all else. Right? You have always hated the filthy deal-making of Americans.’

‘That is true, Teresa. But I have a responsibility to ensure that my product and all it represents is valued as it should be. This is a lesson I impart to my followers with sermon and ritual. But to the people at large – to your buyers – this is something which must be communicated through the language of money, until they can be brought into the fold.’

Bullshit. Teresa can see it in his eyes. He believes what he’s saying – no madman could be as effective as El Santo if he didn’t buy his own lies – but there’s a small, grubby part of him that resents her evolving from the scared little girl who almost died to buy his coke, that craves her fear and to see her back on her knees. And that part is _crafting_ the lies.

The thing is, she can afford to pay double and charge her customers the same. But that’s not what El Santo wants.

‘Your product has not changed. How can I justify the rise in price to my buyers?’

‘That’s for you to figure out.’

‘And if I say no?’

She expects a line about vengeance and justice; some vague threat that will unsettle her for weeks, or something not-vague and gruesome that will force her to think on her feet.

Instead, El Santo’s eyes gleam and he reaches under the table.

Immediately, two of Teresa’s men are barking at him to stand down, pointing guns at his head. Teresa’s heart is beating fast; she can’t believe he’d be willing to risk his most lucrative business relationship over a whim of ego. But El Santo just smiles that greasy, enigmatic smile and slowly brings up a manila folder, sliding it across the table.

She almost doesn’t want to look – knows it can’t be anything good - but she forces herself to unwind the string fastening and pull out the photographs.

The moment she sees them, her breath catches.

The first one is extremely grainy, but the setting is clear; the bars of prison cells in a corridor, the dark silhouette of a guard with a baton at his hip. One cell is circled in red pen.

The next photograph is taken from inside the cell, and the subject clearly has no idea he’s being watched; it looks as though someone has angled a cell phone in the gap between the top bunk and the wall in order to get a shot of the person underneath.

James is lying on top of the covers on his side, facing the wall. Eyes closed, his face is relaxed in sleep; even with the poor picture quality Teresa can see his hair all mussed up and the pillow crease imprinted on his cheek. She used to love watching him sleep; for someone who was always so watchful and reflective, it had made her happy to see him so peaceful. Vulnerable. It had made her happy that he let her see him that way.

Carefully, Teresa puts the photographs back in the folder. She meets El Santo’s eyes with an icy stare. If it were anyone else, she might make a different play; pretend that James means nothing to her, that she doesn’t care what happens to him. There are people around her she’s tried very hard to convince of the same thing. But there is no point lying to El Santo. He’d kill James just to make sure.

‘You want to be very careful about what you say next,’ she says quietly.

He laughs; an unpleasant, mirthless sound like some creature imitating a human without ever having met one.

‘I say only what is in furtherance of divinity,’ he says, ‘so all I say is sent by my god. I have people close to this man who will know if you do not raise your prices. They are my hands… and you’ve seen what I can do to people with my hands.’

It feels like someone has poured ice water down her back. She leans back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, and refuses to break eye contact.

‘I have hands too,’ she reminds him. ‘There are people in that prison who will kill anyone that touches him.’

El Santo shrugs. ‘If I have to sacrifice a pawn to take down a knight, so be it.’

=

She agrees to his terms, and resolves to eliminate him.

El Santo has been a weight around her ankle for too long. She has the money, the resources and the people to make her own product now; she’s just been keeping him around out of convenience. But anyone who thinks they can threaten her is a liability.

‘It’s not a threat to _you_ though, is it?’ asks the Girl.

Teresa is sitting in the back of a private plane, opposite from Pote, who is focused on a bottle of tequila; he doesn’t notice that she’s having a silent conversation with a vision seated across the aisle from him.

 _The Queen was always supportive and helpful,_ she grumbles internally. _You’re just argumentative._

‘She had an easier job,’ the Girl counters, lips twitching. ‘You listened, back then. Now you don’t listen to anyone but yourself.’

_You are myself._

‘Stop trying to change the subject. Admit it. You’re willing to burn your most valuable supplier, all because of James.’

‘It’s not just because of James.’

Too late, she realizes she’s spoken out loud, and Pote gives her a concerned look.

‘Teresita?’

She musters a smile. ‘It’s nothing, Pote. Just… thinking out loud.’

He’s clearly unconvinced; she told him about El Santo’s threat and her decision to remove him from the equation. He was full of enthusiasm for getting rid of _‘that loco cabron’_ , and noticeably devoid of commentary on the factor that had pushed her over the edge.

He studies her closely, the way few people dare to do anymore, and just when she thinks he’s going to let it go he clears his throat.

‘Before we left for Bolivia… I went to visit James.’

He says it gently, like the words might hurt her. Momentarily, she’s stunned – she hasn’t seen James in a year. It never occurred to her that Pote would go on his own. It should have.

‘… and?’ she asks eventually, unable to stop a shade of eagerness entering her voice.

‘He’s doing okay. Keeping his head down. Well, as far as he knows.’

‘That’s… that’s good.’

‘He wasn’t happy that you were going to Bolivia.’

Teresa can’t help it; she smiles. ‘He wouldn’t be.’

‘He said he’s written letters.’

The smile slips away.

‘Are you going to ignore him forever?’

‘I don’t know what else there is to say. He gave himself up, Pote.’

_He left._

‘He took the fall for a crime you committed. Most people would consider that a gesture of loyalty, not betrayal.’

‘He chose to go to prison. I could have done something. I could have broken him out, anything. But he doesn’t want that. He wants to stay in there and rot.’

Pote looks sad, but doesn’t argue. She knows he misses James – he might never admit it, but other than Teresa there was no one he trusted more to guard his back, or hers. They’d been friends; grumpy, competitive, but friends. He hadn’t understood James’s choice, but he respected it.

Teresa respected it. She just couldn’t forgive it.

=

The house is hushed for about a week. Teresa’s hold over the South is uncontested; it’s rare now that they have cause to go to war, and the tension is palpable – El Santo is a foundational piece of the operation, and no one is dumb enough to think this will be easy. But there’s also a hum of excitement in the air – it’s rare now that they have cause to go to war, and these are people who were born for it.

George arrives on the third day, fresh from an actual vacation, and gives her one of those ridiculous leers that only feel friendly because they’re from him. He’s never been intimidated by her; Teresa is grateful for that.

‘I hear you’re fixin’ to file for divorce from that psychotic son of a bitch you call a supplier,’ he says. ‘Who can I shoot?’

She smiles. ‘I have something different in mind for you.’

=

There was a time when the idea of going up against El Santo would have seemed like the most terrifying prospect in the world; Teresa thinks there might be something that scares her more.

The night before, she picks out the perfect outfit; white pants and a silk camisole that feels like butter against her skin. She has a jacket in mind – a short, tailored blazer with enough angles to make her feel like anyone who tries to touch her will get cut.

At the last minute she changes her mind and pulls out a cashmere sweater, telling herself it’s going to be cold.

Pote, George and the men are having a poker game downstairs and she can hear their laughter through the floor; she had been invited, but knew she wouldn’t be able to focus well enough not to embarrass herself – and while Pote would love to beat her at cards for once, she can’t afford to lose in front of George’s men. Teresa likes hearing them laugh, though – sometimes they take themselves so seriously, herself included. Usually they have to.

She’s three seconds away from rolling a joint to calm herself down when the Girl appears, plodding barefoot across the carpet to sit on the bed next to her.

_I’m not in the mood._

‘Hearing something you’re not in the mood for will be good for you,’ says the Girl – is she _joking_ with her? ‘Help you remember what it’s like to be normal.’ She looks around; takes in the bed larger than her childhood kitchen, the opulent decorations, the glittering view. ‘As much as you can feel normal in a place like this.’

_All those times I saw the Queen – giving me advice, or warnings – I thought she was pushing me to become the best version of myself I could be. Now I’m her, and what – you want me to go back to the naïve little girl who thought we could do things a different way?_

The Girl takes her underhanded dig in stride; just raises an eyebrow.

‘You never let anyone think you were weak back then, Teresa,’ she says, a little sadly. ‘Why should you be allowed? The Queen was just the most pragmatic side of you coming out when you needed her to. She was your survival instinct. You were never meant to _become_ her. Not at the expense of everything good in you.’

A defiant little part of her wants to say ‘there is no good or bad in this business’, but she stopped believing that a long time ago.

_If I stayed good, I’d be dead._

_‘_ I’m the good part of you. You can still see me – I’m still here. The mercy and kindness, the humanity, the love. Right now, that’s what you need more of.’

_I tried. Don’t you remember that? I wanted to keep that part of myself alive. But being that way cost too much._

‘It was dangerous. You were certainly not as rich back then. But you were happier. The people around you weren’t there because you paid them, or because they were afraid of you. They were there because they believed in you. They loved you. Isn’t it better to die with that than to live without it?’

=

For someone who has never actually served time, Teresa has spent enough time in prisons to know that they all carry the same smell. They’re like public pools that way, or bookshops; except instead of chlorine or new paper, they all smell like disinfectant, stale water and human misery.

She’s only ever been to this particular prison once, at the start of James’s sentence. She hadn’t been allowed to hug him, so the memory doesn’t have his scent. It just smells like prison.

It feels like a million years ago, but as she’s escorted by an officer to a private visitation room – the kind usually reserved for inmates and their attorneys – she can see that nothing’s really changed. The same grey walls and clinical silence. The same pit in her stomach.

They reach a door and the officer opens it for her, stepping aside so she can enter a tiny room with a cheap table and two chairs in it. There’s another door in the opposite wall.

‘He’ll be along in a minute, ma’am. Take a seat.’

Teresa obeys (a rare occurrence nowadays), immediately realizing she doesn’t know how to sit. Crossed arms are hostile; elbows on the table is disrespectful; hands in her lap feels too formal, but hands on her knees too casual.

She hears a key turning in the other door, and reflexively crosses her arms as her heartbeat kicks into overdrive.

It feels like an eternity until the door finally opens, although it can’t have been more than five seconds, and then James is walking in, his eyes hooking straight onto hers.

 _Mierda,_ he looks good. It’s not fair. He’s paler than the last time she saw him, and he needs a haircut, but he is just as handsome as ever.

‘Hello, James,’ she says – and even to herself, she sounds uncertain.

James’s gaze is searching, unflinching; Teresa wonders what he must be thinking, after so long of no contact. She thinks he must like what he sees, because the next moment his eyes go soft and it’s as though she can finally stop holding her breath. When he talks, he sounds certain.

‘Hello, Teresa.’ 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in forever, but this show and Jeresa have consumed my soul.
> 
> (I know this says Chap 1/1, but I don't know how to change it to 1/? - this will be at least 3 parts).


End file.
